


christmas werewolves

by graywhatsit



Series: Hatbots [12]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Gen, Werewolf Lore, based on the fact that a full moon is on christmas therefore christmas werewolves, hatbots, tons of it tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith and Trott decide to play a little Christmas prank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	christmas werewolves

**Author's Note:**

> first one in several months eh
> 
> it has literally been a whole season

“Hey, Trott.”

“Yep?” Trott pressed the down arrow on the remote, not quite willing to turn his full attention away from this show, though not really the type to completely and utterly  _ ignore _ his friend.

Smith shifted in place, turning away from the screen. “So, Christmas.”

“That’s happening, yeah.” Trott looked sidelong at Smith, frowning. “If this is about your present, I’m not telling you. You’ll find out when you open it.”

Smith stared at him, narrowing his eyes in confusion. “I don’t give a fuck what you got me for Christmas, Trott.” He didn’t know Trott had gotten him a present, much less had the funds to pay for it, but he wasn’t one to deny a gift. Whatever it turned out to be. “No, it’s a full moon that day, and--”

Trott, choosing not to be hurt by Smith’s dismissal, turned up the volume.

“ _And_ ,” Smith continued, raising his voice to be heard, “we both know that Ross knows about it--”

Trott firmly planted his thumb on the up arrow.

“AND YOU KNOW HOW HE-- oh, for fuck’s--” Smith swiped the remote from Trott’s hand and pressed the power button. Ignoring Trott’s protests-- “I was  _watching_ that.”-- he continued on. “He like fucking _adores_ dogs. So, what I was thinking is…”

“What, tell him that werewolves are real?” Trott stopped, snapping his mouth shut as he thought about it, before pointing at Smith. “There’s an idea.”

“That’s not it, though! Okay, for the next three days, which will bring us up to Christmas, we do everything in our power to convince him.” Smith had his phone in his hand by this point, rapidly typing up ideas. “Talk about dogs we see, watch whatever shit werewolf movie we find, you can read books on the legend and tell him shit, I’ll work on-- no, nevermind. Then.” He stopped typing, facing Trott. “Then, on Christmas night, I schedule maintenance. When he wakes up, boom-- wolfy-Ross.”

Trott seemed almost completely on board, but Smith could still see some worry on his face. “How wolfy are we talking? Because I don’t want him chewing on shit and trying to attack us.”

Smith waved a hand, going back to his notes for a moment. “I won’t go too far, don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t know if I trust you, mate--”

“Why not? I’ve never done anything to make you not trust me,” Smith interrupted, indignant. “I gave you life, clothes, electricity, regular upkeep--”

“You’ve tinkered in our memories, you installed protocols to keep us out of rooms,” Trott ticked off on his fingers, “you regularly kick us out of the house for unknown reasons, you  _ killed _ my pet…”

“Yeah, mate, totally trustworthy, don’t worry about it.” Smith squeezed Trott’s shoulder and stood up, putting away his phone. “Get those books, yeah? Everything will work out, mate, don’t worry about it.”

Repeating himself didn’t help his credibility, but Trott was too busy drowning in the list of untrustworthy things Smith had done over the past few years to properly address that.

  
  


Over the next few days, Ross became partly horrifically confused and part ridiculously excited. First of all, there existed a creature that could become a dog! They could be a dog whenever they wanted, or was that only during a full moon? He got conflicting information on that, since Trott read about ones that could just  _ do _ it, but the movie Smith watched with him said otherwise.

Another thing was the sheer amount of ways it could happen. You had to be bit, according to some texts, but one he looked up on his own said you could just wear a pelt, which seemed a little cruel to him. Ross firmly believed that fur was murder, even if you could turn into the animal as a result. Another thing, which really excited him, was being born on Christmas Eve, which was that week! Out of all of the people in the world, they only had 365 days to be born on, which meant a  _ huge _ population of werewolves in the world.

“Don’t worry about it,” had been Smith’s reply when shown the numbers on the impact of such a large hunting population. Ross couldn’t help but worry, anyway. Also, if there were so many in the world, and they may or may not be able to change at will, did that mean some of the dogs he’d petted were, in fact, sometimes people? Did they like being on leashes or being petted? He’d seen those websites on more than one….  _ accidental _ and  _ completely innocent _ browses, so were those all werewolves, or was it some kind of ‘some but not all’ situations like you got with rectangles-- 

“You know what, Ross?” Trott firmly closed his book-- the third in two days, and he was already growing a little sick of the legend. He’d been under the weight of Ross’ infodump for long enough, and he was starting to tread into places Trott absolutely refused to go, even at his most curious. “Why don’t we go for a walk and clear our heads, eh? Get that fresh Christmas air, yeah?”

“Trott, I have questions and theories and they need to be explored!” 

What had they done? Trott fought back the urge to bury his own face in his hands and instead reached out for Ross, tugging him up onto his feet. “You can do that outside. Bracing fresh air, get your thoughts in order, gets your oil going. It’s good for you.”

Ross doubted anything other than a complete overhaul of his CPU would get his thoughts in order, but he didn’t mind walking around outside, especially when it was crisp. Anything over 17C made him feel a bit overheated, be it a real design flaw on Smith’s part or a purely fabricated feeling, so a nice 9C was just about perfect. “I guess…”

“Great. Jacket on, let’s go.” Maybe, if Trott was very lucky, he’d get distracted by something else on the way.

  
  


Good news: Ross and Trott did, in fact, become distracted.

Bad news: they were distracted by, of all things, an actual dog attack.

The facts were these: the day felt even colder than declared by the forecast, with a decidedly nasty breeze curling into all of the gaps of their coats, and groaning only in the way that wind can groan and howl. As such, they were cold, and both Ross and Trott burrowed deeper into their coats. Ross, for his part, still continued to talk, even if it was muffled.

“And you said only witches could in the book you read this morning, and for all I know, witches aren’t real, so how could that one be valid? Unless they are real and we’ve been missing out on magic this whole time. We need to get in on that, Trott, that could be a real goldm-- oh, shit, sor--  _ ow, _ mother _ fucker _ ! ”

Trott had been doing his very best to continue to tune Ross out, but the sudden sharp yelp of a dog in pain cut through his own thoughts, and Ross’ own exclamation became loud and clear right next to him. “What happened?” Ross stood a little behind him, curling into himself and grabbing his leg, and a dog-- a big, mangy sort of mutt, whimpering in pain again from either his hurt paw or sore teeth from biting into metal-- was already hurrying away from them, not willing to fight something that continues to fight back after a solid chomp like that.

“A dog  _ bit _ me, is what happened!” Ross cursed again, then lifted one hand from the bite. It was coated in rusty red-brown liquid, slippery on his fingers and staining his jeans. “He actually got through my skin! Fucking jaw pressure and-- wait, Trott!” He looked up, and Trott could see his eyes shining, and not with simulated tears of pain. His stomach dropped. “Do you think? Was it?”

Trott kind of regretted this entire prank. “I don’t know, mate,” he replied, strained, and scratched at the back of his head. “I mean, don’t they.. you know, look like normal dogs?”

“But sometimes they don’t!” Ross grabbed Trott by the shoulders, entirely forgetting about the fact that his leg had been bitten and was still wide open to the elements. “Trott, Smith said, and those movies! Sometimes they’re big, and that dog was really big!”

“You’re getting your oil on me....” If Trott still had his digestive system, which he didn’t and honestly didn’t miss it much, his stomach would not be best pleased; as it was, he still wasn’t very happy. “Look,” he continued, raising his hands to push Ross’ stained hands off of him, doing his very best to keep from getting any more oil on him than necessary, “let’s just go home and get you patched up before we start thinking any further on it, okay? You’re still losing oil.”

Ross raved all the way home.

“Are you still gonna go through with this?” Trott asked Smith, later, once Ross was well and truly under. Doing ‘surgery’ whilst they were awake was a mistake none of them would ever repeat. Screaming, agonized, half-open robots was a fear Smith never knew he had. It was scarier than he’d thought. “I mean, it was just a joke before, but now he was bitten, he’s really gonna believe it.”

“That makes it even better!” Smith spread his arms wide, and Trott took a step back-- a wise move, considering he was still brandishing a scalpel from his skin graft creation. “It just adds credibility-- before, it was his belief that changed him, and now he has a catalyst! It’s perfect!”

Worrying. Incredibly worrying. Trott was just waiting for Smith to say ‘for science!’-- then, the entire picture of amoral scientist would be complete. “And, what-- you’re just going to leave those programs in him? Or are you going to break his heart at some point?”

Smith shrugged, picking up adhesive and a ‘transfusion’ packet of oil, then struggling to pull them apart. “No idea. We’ll see how it all goes, won’t we?”

If Trott were more responsible, he’d try and stop Smith. As it was, he shook his head and walked away, honestly wondering how on Earth Smith had lived so long to create them, much less become an adult.

 

Christmas night, after a dinner that was much better than last year’s takeaway, because it wasn’t takeaway and wasn’t horrifically burned, Trott waited. He waited for Smith to stop tinkering with his new toolkit, which was really just made of small fidget pieces for when he couldn’t keep his hands still and everyone wanted a house to live in, rather than a burned out shell, and announce maintenance. Every fifteen minutes or so, and he knew as much because of his internal clock which he actually bothered to check, he glanced between Ross on the couch, enjoying his new, blue jumper, and Smith, still fidgeting.

If Smith actually caught his eye, he shook his head.

Maybe he did it whilst Ross was under? There was an idea: why announce random, unscheduled ‘checkups’ when an opportunity had fallen right into Smith’s lap? It wasn’t suspicious that way, and while Ross was a little naive for a supercomputer and very excitable, he wasn’t unintelligent; he’d eventually figure something was up for himself. A discouraged and upset Ross was heartbreaking in and of itself, so maybe keeping it all under wraps was best? Like a child with Santa Claus.

Christmas wasn’t really the time for moral dilemmas.

“Well,” he said, standing and tucking his new tablet-- his _own_ ,  all to himself, and apparently really cheap! Even if it did require gloves for finger recognition until a later upgrade from Smith-- under his arm. 

“Bed, already?” Ross raised an eyebrow. “It’s not even Boxing Day, why are you going to bed now?”

“Gotta transfer all my books over, if I can.” As he crossed over, he patted Smith’s head, just lightly scratching at his hair. It was a weird quirk all of them shared, but it was a quick way to express affection, and it worked out just fine for everyone. “Thanks for Christmas, mate.” 

“Yeah, mate.” Smith waved a hand, half-heartedly swatting at Trott’s as it passed, before going back to his fidget toy. “Wait till at least nine to fall asleep, yeah?” A light emphasis was placed on nine, and it worked as a nice double meaning that Ross hopefully wouldn’t get: Brace himself for nine, when things might, literally, get hairy. Got it.

“Fucking-- nine? We’re not fucking twelve, Smith!” Ross’ voice floated up after him.

“You’re right,” Smith answered, “you’re like  _ two. _ ” To be fair, he wasn’t wrong.

  
  


It didn’t, in fact, happen at nine.

It happened at 8:02 pm, with Trott halfway through  _ A Song of Ice and Fire  _ and a horrific commotion from downstairs, including a surprised shout from Smith. Unnerved, Trott dropped both book and tablet on his desk, cautiously opening the door to the hall. “Guys--”

“ _Trott, don’t open the_ - _ - _ ” Smith’s warning came a little late, with a cacophonous thundering up the stairs and a hefty weight throwing Trott to the floor. 

In his imagination, which was more creative than either of his friends gave him credit for, Trott had imagined Ross’ ‘transformation’ to be a little more spectacular than it was. He’d imagined a full-on dog form, some kind of monstrous, misshapen form, and a kind of gorilla-wolf like in those old movies. Maybe he’d given Smith a little too much credit-- Ross had only really been under for an hour or two at most. Instead, he got two furry, pointed ears, thick chops, a longer, wider nose, glowing eyes, and slightly sharper teeth and nails.

He kind of looked like that one American werewolf show.

“The  _ fuck _ ? ” Ross only snuffled at him in response, an incredibly unnerving feeling involving a nose in ticklish junctions of his upper torso, resulting in a solid kick in the gut from Trott, just managing to get his legs under himself.

Ross whined at him, hurt, before loping off down the hall and into Smith’s workshop. Time was of the essence.

“Smith, get your ass up here and  _ turn him off! _ ” Trott never wanted to be sniffed, even by a real dog. Now it was his friend, and he had been pinned and his privacy bubble breached, and this little prank was  _ not funny _ . Smith didn’t seem to think so, either, considering how pale his face was upon reaching the top of the stairs. He’d stopped for good reason, Trott thought as he turned back to look-- Ross stood there, eyes wide, with a wrench in his grasp and every ‘muscle’ tensed, as if to either attack or, possibly,  _ play _ .

No.

Smith knew some things about dogs, and Trott did, as well. If Ross was really in the mindset of one, they’d have to play along.

Trott wasn’t sure who would end up more humiliated later. Carefully, he patted his knees, feeling every single ounce of awkwardness he could possibly contain. “Uh… here, Ross. Want, oh god… want to play? Fetch?”

Ross crouched down a little further, and after one more beckon from Trott, bounded over, wrench still in, of all things, his mouth, and not his hands. He dropped it on the floor at Trott’s feet, then looked between it and Trott, himself.

“Oh, why… good job, mate.” Trott reached out a hand to place on Ross’ hair, which wasn’t weird at any other time, but right now was the weirdest thing he’d ever done. “You brought it here.” He glanced over at Smith, glaring daggers as much as any robot ever could, and jerked his head towards Ross.

Smith, himself, often enjoyed his friends’ discomfort. It was often way too amusing to just sit back and watch the show, especially if he’d started the whole thing. This, though, was way too much, even for him, and he took as little time as he possibly could in flipping open the access panel on Ross’ neck to switch him off.

Ross faceplanted on the floor with a thunk, narrowly missing one of Trott’s shoes to the forehead, and Trott instantly whirled on Smith. “You programmed all of that shit? What the fuck kind of sick-- I thought you were only gonna change--” He flailed, gesturing towards his own body. “Like fur, claws… what the  _ fuck _ , Smith?”

Smith raised his hands in front of him, taking a step back. “I didn’t! I didn’t, I swear!”

“So you expect me to fucking believe you didn’t change a god damn  _ thing _ ? ” Trott snorted. “Bullshit.”

“I changed his  _ body.  _ Like I gave him those chops and sharpened everything up-- I set it to activate when his body got enough moonlight. I guess he saw the moon too early and-- but I  _ swear _ to you,” Smith looked deadly serious, “I didn’t change his behaviour. I  _ swear. _ ”

Trott would take the time to marvel at Smith’s skill later. “I’ll believe you, mostly because you’ve never sworn anything in your life.” Smith, wisely, didn’t say a word. “If you didn’t do it, why was he acting like that? Like it was real?”

Smith, for all his knowledge of inner workings, could do nothing but shrug. It remained a mystery as they hefted Ross to bed, as they tossed and turned all night, and as they woke up the next morning, Ross physically normal and full of energy.

With absolutely no knowledge of last night.

**Author's Note:**

> what really happened? was it real or fake?
> 
> It Is A Mystery


End file.
